Depression Poems
79. Still Adjacent
by Kea Campbell
Pardon my bluntly put, but people won't endure your fits and pricks much too long.
Even the wolves won't bite your lies. They're not afraid—they'll blitz your prongs.
The same thought creeps around my consciousness like an intruder in my home away from home,
Because there's a con in my house; a mole next door. I fancy a safe space and peace—all alone
Contouring your entourage is a classic precocious assimilation tactic.
Polygraphs haunt you in your sleep because you worship gossip as if it’s a situational prophylactic.
Your narc addiction is narcissistic. Strangers defy perspective and get hooked into your rave,
......
Public Clocks
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
At first his anger was hotter than July
Or, rather, he was plundered by the weight of
Sorrow —heavier than the ice of January;
The kind of stolid ice that thickened Niagara Falls
Like frozen soup.
He was tall and lissome, bespectacled, in
Dark suits, a brown hat, worn-out shoes of fraternity.
A folded umbrella accompanied him like a touring child.
No wristwatch.
He doesn’t wear them.
......
"Stressed"
by Author Reinvented
I see them stressed, depressed, got worries they can't forget:
Here they are in all this pain
If only they could somehow change
So everybody is the same.
Then all their problems might just fade...
Distressed, compressed, their minds are all a mess,
Bridled, suicidal, they can't escape their titles.
They can't live here in all this pain,
Why can't everybody change
......
Unseen struggle
by Ayla R
Demons dance where none have seen,
A haunting waltz, a silent scream.
A mask of smiles, a cloak of light
Just to convince them I'll be alright
In shadowed corners, secrets keep
A heavy heart that cannot sleep.
The weight of thoughts, so extreme
I'm living in a fading dream.
......
They say it's cold outside
by Author Reinvented
They say it's cold outside,
That the wind cuts like a knife.
Is it possible they lied?
I can't feel it.
They say its warm inside,
That home's where the heart
abides.
Am I frozen in time?
......
Public Clocks
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
At first his anger was hotter than July
Or, rather, he was plundered by the weight of
Sorrow —heavier than the ice of January;
The kind of stolid ice that thickened Niagara Falls
Like frozen soup.
He was tall and lissome, bespectacled, in
Dark suits, a brown hat, worn-out shoes of fraternity.
A folded umbrella accompanied him like a touring child.
No wristwatch.
He doesn’t wear them.
......
97. Just Waiting
by Kea Campbell
Paranoia that resides and confines.
The truth knows nothing of your breath.
Not a thought left unsaid.
No hush— unfiltered; obsessed.
Haste to red— embodiment of embarrassment.
Conductor of my mental state.
A flaw of mine I so much hate.
Temper-less parades.
I have yet to find my escape.
......
93. So, Defeating
by Kea Campbell
Fingers rest at F and J and the keys ask, “How are you?”
My hands are speechless… “I’m okay, just feeling out of tune.”
Tired eyes from trauma and headaches from national news,
Unable to side with the hypocrite Demis or self-centered men in blue suits.
Pardon my pessimism, but the present is all too intense.
I empathize with the 15.4 million and contemplate the 49 thousand.
What a shame of how difficult it is to find a true friend,
But I reap what I sow, considering I no longer make an attempt.
Don’t get the wrong idea if I can’t find any more of me to give.
......
Resignation
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
As the hours stretch slowly and with
Sloth’s irredeemable tempo,
The earth, lacking appetite, nibbles at her meals
Which roll upon the fulcrum of the grand star
And discerns all inclinations
Towards us brittle souls —
Souls which peregrinate
On circles of death
And life . . .
......
86. Trying
by Kea Campbell
Stumbling through the door at 1 a.m., not drunk, just sleepless's bite.
My house is clouded with fog, and I return at the latest times of night.
I long for peace, careful not to make eye contact with Death.
I cry for the coach to save me from my straits, while I rise and pine to the scant love for life that's left.
The air thickens, and tensions cut my wrists.
My days expand, and I sleep without rest.
The world weighs on my chest, with past wars documented on my flesh.
Disordered mentality is cinched around my neck, but the stool I stand on is breaded with red.
......
